


Have I?

by 99_Girl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/99_Girl/pseuds/99_Girl
Summary: Clarke goes to Bellamy for comfort after falling out with Finn. The events which follow test the lengths to which they'll go for each other.a.k.a my take on the popular prompt: What would have happened if Clarke, not Raven, went to Bellamy for comfort after the Finncident?





	1. Retcon

**Author's Note:**

> The answer is smut. Smut happens. Had a dream about this and decided to write it down.

Today was was eventful: just like every day the past couple weeks has been _eventful_ , and Bellamy is struggling with the question of whether or not that actually makes today mundane.

On the Ark, after his sister had been incarcerated and his mother sucked into the vacuum of space for the crime of having a second kid; after his less-literal expulsion from The Guard and being assigned the role of Janitor-- a job those highbrow fucks saw as lowly-- he’d found it easier to willfully die inside as time passed, little by little, just so that he could keep some sort of connection with his mother. Hopefully soak up enough radiation that he would eventually disintegrate into starstuff, just as Aurora would have done by now out in the sour, expanding void.

Mornings had shambled into afternoons. Afternoons then slumped into evenings. Evenings finally stumbled into nights of shitty sleep and scratchy bedding. And sometimes the chaos here on the Ground almost makes him miss those little celestial constants. But only barely.

Back then, it had been a long time since he’d heard of any criminal being pardoned on their eighteenth birthday, but the thought of Octavia being freed and allowed to live was what kept him going.

But if he’s being honest, he knows it couldn’t have gone on forever. Octavia would have eventually broken, lost her mind at having no place in the world other than further under the Council’s feet than he or his mother would ever be. And at some point someone would have questioned why he, himself, didn’t find a romantic partner and take up residence on Alpha with the rest of the Guard. He knew that’s something that his mother wanted for him, but he couldn’t bear the idea of leaving his family behind on 17-B.

And here he is, today, lungs stinging from the bracing, fragrant freedom that cuts and howls through the Dropship camp. He can reach out and hug his sister again. There are people here who rely on him. The Princess believes in him.

It’s better. Different.

Better.

Well, mostly. Right now he’s been hungrier than he’d ever been on the Ark, which is frigging saying something.

Last evening the camp smokehouse burned to the ground because some asshole decided not to listen to Octavia and Murphy. The fire was too hot and now all their meat is ruined. What’s that old saying, he thinks, ‘ _Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust_ ’?

The solution was clear: send as many as the camp could spare out for a hunt. They all broke into teams and, fortunately, returned with a pretty good haul.

But the fortifications he’d stayed behind to oversee went too slowly and it pissed him off, almost felt like a waste of labor when he could’ve sent a few more people out to forage. He did manage to rebuild the smokehouse, at least.

And, of course, there’d been some kids with splinters, a few with gashes, and a boy with a broken finger. He knew how to deal with those injuries, which was good because Clarke was out hunting with Finn. That meant that Raven was in a shit mood all day, and he was feeling pretty irritated, too.

He’d rather Clarke stayed here with him.

To help with the injuries and planning.

And not out with the guy who led her on and betrayed both she and Raven.

So he’d also burned valuable daylight trying to convince himself that he wasn’t bothered by the idea of Clarke and Finn off fucking against a tree. Tried especially hard to stop that train of thought leading to the question of how soft the skin on the inside of her thighs might be, or the sounds he could coax out of her with his mouth.

 _Shit, I need to get laid again_ , he gripes inwardly. He briefly wonders if Raven would be down for a no-strings hookup, then hates himself for even considering asking her at such a dark and vulnerable time.

When Clarke and Finn got back, they were pretty disheveled but had killed a boar, and had this kid named Miles with them who, by no fault of his own, has a personality which could be called ‘boner pesticide’.

It’s late and Bellamy is completely wiped by the time he enters his tent. Clarke is standing near the bed. His chest tightens because it must be something important for her to seek him out now, while they’re both so tired and everything’s calm.

He walks up, brow knitted with concern, “What are you doing in here?”

Clarke’s clean, he notices. Her hair shines and smells like the bitter soap they render from boar fat. In fact, there are damp patches on her shirt, making it cling to her skin more distractingly than usual. She’s shivering and he fights the urge to pull her close, warm her by rubbing circles into her back the way he’d done for Octavia when she’d crawl up out of the floor.

“Clarke.” He hates the way his voice snags on her name since their trip to the supply bunker. “Why are your clothes wet?”

It nearly broke him thinking she might die from sickness a couple days ago. If she catches pneumonia he’s not sure what he’d do.

Having a partner, a confidante, someone on equal footing is fucking terrifying sometimes. Especially now that he knows that he couldn’t do this without her.

She laughs, wry, with eyes shuttered and hands balled into her jacket pockets. “He certainly doesn’t waste time, I’ll give him that.” Her boot scrapes against the ground as she shifts, agitated. “It’s been, what? A day-and-a-half?”

 _Oh. This is about Spacewalker_.

“What does that even mean?”

“He wouldn’t stop flirting. Even with Miles there, he wouldn’t stop. Told me that he loves me and wants to be with me.”

It’s like a punch in the gut. More and more, it feels like anything Finn does makes the world fall to shit.

“You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.” He practically throws his jacket onto the chair.

Placidly, she watches him. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Have I?”

“Yes.” The words are weak and don’t sound convincing. “Time to move on.” Changing the subject, “Why are your clothes wet, Clarke?” There’s a petty part of him that figures she went to get clean for Finn. Maybe the two of them are together and that’s what she’s here to tell him. Anxiety gnaws at his stomach. One way or another, he’s sure that Spacewalker will ruin what they’ve built here.

Instead, Clarke slides off her jacket. It pools at her ankles, blue and reflective. With hair not quite dry, flowing in glassy waves, she reminds him of a painting he saw in a book. Aphrodite rising from the sea.

“I went to the river to wash up.” Gripping his bicep, Clarke leans down to take off her boots.

Reflexively, Bellamy grips her shoulder to help with balance. “When did you do that? Did you go by yourself?”

Straightening, she chuckles, presumably at the tinge of panic always coloring his anger whenever she goes outside the walls without a gunner. “Relax, Bellamy. A group of us went. I just-” A pause unspools between them, tying him in place. She looks sad.

“Did you have blood on you? Did you get hurt?”

“No,” she murmurs, “I just wanted to wash off the whole day.” Pulling an elastic tie from her wrist, she begins to braid her hair over one shoulder.

Bellamy takes the opportunity to turn away and toe off his boots. They land under the bed. Over his shoulder, “Look, Clarke, it’s been a long day and we’re both stressed. Can we do whatever this is in the morning?”

“That depends on how things go now,” she says, even and confident.

When he turns back she’s directly in front of him, flushed and warm enough that the air around them is spiked with, well, _her_. Something tugs taut deep in his belly and along his thighs.

“I want you to touch me, Bellamy.” A rustle and streak of gray cotton: her shirt lands next to her coat. Clarke Griffin stands before him in just her bra and jeans.

This is unexpected. Apparently it’s possible for him to feel like he’s been kicked in the chest on top of being incredibly turned on. And really, really nervous. Still, this doesn’t actually have anything to do with _him_. This is about Finn.

Eyes locked determinedly to her own, “What are you doing?”

Clarke extends a hand, runs her palm down his arm, and settles her thumb’s pad against the pulse on the inside of his wrist. “Moving on.”

He’s suddenly dying to know what her lower lip tastes like.

“You’re not thinking straight, Clarke. You’re just upset. If you’re looking for a rebound or revenge I’m- I’m not that guy.” For some reason he can’t back away, can only stare where her thumb brands his wrist.

A lengthy sigh draws his attention. “That’s not it.”

“What is it, then?”

“When I look at him, I remember how it felt when he was inside me. And I don’t trust him now. It makes me feel sad and gross, and I don’t want to feel this way anymore.” Closer still. “I trust you. I’m attracted to you. I want it to be you I remember.” Ducking her head, she bites at her lip and whispers. “I’m not expecting anything after that.”

That’s not difficult to believe, which complicates things even more. Because he could see himself being and idiot and wanting her for more than just sex. Before long he would want her as his own.

Jaw ticking, “We run this camp together. Everyone here needs us. Aren’t you worried that things will get weird or we’ll get pissed at each other?” _That you’ll hate me_ , he thinks.

She laughs, throaty and mirthful. “Bellamy, we spent the first week here absolutely despising one another, and we _still_ managed to work shit out. And look at where we are now.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Are you attracted to me?”

It’s his turn to be amused. “Of course I am. You’re gorgeous and hot as hell.”

“Do you want to have sex with me, Bellamy? If not, it’s okay.”

“I do.” God, he does.

Grabbing his other hand, she places it over her belt buckle. “Then, please. Please fuck me.”

He groans, gutted and helpless. And he’s hard. Painfully hard. He’s thought about this. Begged himself not to think about this, even while he’s fucked his own fist, fantasizing about making her sweat and scream his name.

“Please, Bellamy,” Clarke pleads. “I want to feel you.”

“Okay.” The small of her back plies under his palm when he pulls her to him. They align, perfect and sweet. “This isn’t a race, though. Let me make this good for you.”

She nods, sways, sinks into him further. A trust fall.

He doesn’t open her belt. Instead, he gently traces along her flank with his index finger, enjoying the heft and curve of her breast. Up and along until his fingernail just grazes over her hardened nipple through the fabric of her bra.

She shivers and before he can tease her further, Clarke lifts onto her toes and weaves a hand into his hair. It feels completely natural to cup the nape of her neck and kiss her.

They’re both shy at first, gentle and timid, but he’s wired and buzzing and so damn charged that when Clarke clings to the front of his shirt and whimpers, every bit of patience he’d had drains away.

Their kiss and touches become desperate. Tongues laving each other, his hands attacking her bra’s clasp, her fingers gripping and stroking his erection through his pants.

Clarke gets his belt open. Dextrously, she unsnaps the top of his pants and unzips them before he has a chance to prepare himself. When her fingers wrap around him, warm and sure, he has to rest his forehead against hers. He leans into her and moans deep, probably a lot louder than he should.

In a daze, he barely registers that she’s undone her own belt and pants and is shoving them down along with her underwear. Stooping, she kicks them off, then tugs at his own until both he and she are exposed from the waist down. Bellamy realizes he’s still wearing his shirt, so he removes that too.

For a protracted and lonely moment, they simply stare at each other, but then Clarke slides her hand between her legs, trailing fingers through her slit. He can hear the slick stir of her palm being coated. Then she grins and grabs his dick, pumping slowly to spread her fluids over its length.

“Fucking hell, Clarke.” Bellamy reaches around with one hand to palm her ass greedily, then clutches her braid with the other. She moans at the slight sting as he pulls her forward by her hair into another kiss.

Pride glows in his chest because she can’t seem to stop humming insistent pleas against his mouth. The hand she’s jerking him off with loses pace and stills when his fingers find and work her clit in absent, lazy circles. Clarke sags against him, frustrated, and keens balefully against his shoulder. “Bellamy, please.”

He sinks his middle and ring fingers into her vagina and taps rhythmically against the front wall, right against her g-spot. Even annoyed, Clarke still bears down and fucks herself on his hand.

“Honestly,” she pants, “you know that any second one of these kids is going to rush in here needing something and we’ll have to stop. If that happens I’ll kill y-” A cry erupts from her when his thumb knuckle presses against her clit. Legs wobbling, she wavers and nearly collapses.

True, tt’s just a matter of time before they’re interrupted. “Okay, okay.” He huffs on a laugh. “I wanted to make this last longer, but you’re right so let’s get you off quick, shall we?”

Clarke squeaks when he spins her around and walks them forward to his table. “Bellamy, what-”

Pausing, he noses her hair to the side and kisses crook of her jaw. “I can make you come fast, Clarke. It’ll be good. I promise. Do you want that?”

He jolts because she’s reached back between them to stroke his cock encouragingly. “Yes.”

“Good.” Hooking an arm beneath her knee, he swings her leg up to rest on top of the tabletop. “That feel okay?”

Chuckling, she hums affirmatively. “I’m ready. Fuck me.”

“You’re amazing,” he praises while lining himself up with her entrance. Slowly, he pushes, relishing how smoothly he glides in. "You’re so wet, Clarke. You feel so good.” She’s exceptionally snug and it occurs to him that he should slow down. “Do you need a sec to adjust?”

“Mhmm...” she nods. When he moves to pull out slightly, she gestures for him to wait. “Don’t leave me. I just need a moment.”

He rubs soothingly along her back and ass, waiting patiently. She ruts back against him when it’s time.

“Ready,” she tells him.

For just a second more, he waits. It turns him on that she's impatient and greedy for him. Right on cue, she whines, bucks back again. “Seriously? Just f-”

His fingers press into her hips, and with a thrust of his own her complaint dies away to be replaced by their hungry sighs, whimpers, and broken half-words that beg and praise and call to whatever benevolent force gave them this opportunity.

Within a minute, with the fronts of his thighs roughly smacking against the back of hers, and the relentless slide of his dick sweeping against her g-spot, over and over and over, Clarke’s legs begin to shake again.

It’s almost enough to make him blow while she gets tighter and tighter around him, but the point is to make this memorable.

The quaking is intense and it’s clear she can’t hold steady anymore, so he scoots forward to pin her against the table.

“Faster,” she insists. He picks up speed and drives into her harder. The table’s joints creak. A thin wash of her wetness coats his balls and upper thighs. It somehow makes him even harder and he’s starting to feel dizzy. Clarke is shaking so hard that it’s difficult to keep rhythm so he curls over her back, reaches around to rub her clit.

“Almost there, babe,” he soothes. She whines hoarsely. Tighter. She’s close. Bellamy kisses between her shoulder blades. “Clarke, you feel so good,” he whispers. She nods and pants rapidly. Her vagina is squeezing him so hard he can barely thrust in or out.

“Please, Clarke. Let me give you this.”

As if waiting for reassurance that she does actually deserve to feel something good again, she comes. Hard and shaking uncontrollably. The edges of a howl slip past her lips so she grabs the closest object, the map they’ve been using to plan out fortifications, and bites down to muffle the sound. Collateral damage, but certainly worth it.

Determinedly, he keeps time and fucks her even harder. “Want another one, Princess?” With a nod, she reaches back, scrabbling around to find his hand. He pulls her torso up so she's against his chest. Arms freed, Clarke covers her mouth with both hands, but it’s unlikely no one is hearing this.

For however long-- it’s hard to tell-- she rides him through orgasm after orgasm, and at some point slows. Tenderness replaces desperation. She moans sweetly and plays with her tits while he strokes between her thighs and moves within her languidly.

The last time she comes her cries are laced with his name.

It’s almost too much and he’s surprised to realize that it’s her appreciation and affection that finally pushes him over the edge. She’s slumped over the table with muscles jumping and twitching erratically.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Bending low, he scoops her up and carries her to his bed. Balancing on one foot, Bellamy toes back the covers so he can lay her down. There’s a clean rag and can of fresh water nearby. Carefully, he wets the rag and cleans her up, then dries her skin with his second shirt before tucking her under the blanket.

Setting aside the water, he goes to stand, but a tiny hand grips his elbow. Her eyes are sleepy, but definitely clear.

“Did that help?” he asks.

She smiles, relaxed and easy. “Yes. Kiss me goodnight, Bellamy.”

_This wasn’t about me._

He’s desperate to keep that in mind. And this is probably the last time he’ll ever get to kiss Clarke. The last time he’ll get to pretend that someday someone like her could want someone like him.

So he smooths her braid and cradles the soft curve of her jaw. He sips at her lips and tongue: drinks deep for the drought, because this is the part he wants to remember.

When he pulls back his heart is close to exploding and he needs to forget every part of this other than what it’s like to kiss her. He needs to expel all thoughts of them ever being more than leaders and friends.

“Goodnight, babe.” One last sweetness won’t hurt. Probably.

All tucked in again, Clarke curls up and drifts to sleep. Bellamy sits at the table so he can fix the map they’d ruined. Gouges from where she'd dug in her nails mar the wood in front of him. He’ll have to find a way to sand them out.

 

 

 

 


	2. Use Your Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wakes up alone and learns that Bellamy isn't even in the camp. She finds him somewhere unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for the kudos and comments. Because of you wonderful commenters, I've decided to take your advice and keep this story going. Honestly, I've been really depressed lately, so I'm so grateful for such kind encouragement and support.
> 
> I wrote this last night, and I've proofed it, but it's still possible I've missed stuff. Please let me know if there are any glaring errors.

_“Goodnight, babe.”_

_Clarke dreams she’s in a hallway, long and endless and sterile white. Along the length, famous pre-bomb paintings hang complacently on various wires and mounts. Under normal circumstances, this dream terrifies her. For months now, she’d had it every few nights. On the Ark she just assumed it was from the beginnings of hypoxia, but now she’s not so sure because this time, despite this nightmare feeling just as real as ever, she’s not scared._

_Defiantly and in a burst of lucidity, she stops. Turns. There’s a beautiful painting of crows flying over a golden field of wheat. It makes her feel helpless, but certain something worse than their Dropship war is coming._

_“Goodnight...”_

_A steady warmth and strong arms wrap her from behind. Bellamy pulls her close, molds her against his chest and hips. One of his hands splays over her stomach, soothing the roiling panic she always feels these days. The other brushes her hair to the side so he can kiss her from shoulder to jaw._

_Large fingers encompass her own and then the air around her crackles with his voice, tinny and thin as through a radio._

_“We’ll do it together.”_

She jolts awake and Clarke realizes she’s holding her breath. Gulping in air, she casts her eyes around, searching for something.

Bellamy.

It looks like he hasn’t touched the other side of his bed, and his boots are gone from beneath the table.

 _The Table_ , she thinks. A blush ripens the apples of her cheeks, but there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. She knows that. What she doesn’t know is where the hell Bellamy has taken off to.

It’s not morning yet, but should be within the hour. Clarke dresses quickly, then slips through the tent flap and marches straight towards Miller, who’s standing watch near the front gate. The knowing smirk on his face wouldn’t have annoyed her much in the past, but right now the anger she feels at waking up alone, especially after what she and Bellamy had done last night, needs a direction, so it’s currently pointed at Nathan Miller.

Scowling, “Where’s Bellamy?”

“Good morning to you too, Clarke.” Miller chuckles at his own wit while shifting his rifle to the opposite hand. He flexes his fingers to fight off the cold, clearly in discomfort, and Clarke would normally feel inclined to help alleviate that kind of thing but he’s being a snot.

“Where is he?”

“Relax, Clarke. He went to look for some supplies in a bunker Finn told him about. Raven made us radios yesterday while you were out, and he took one so...” Miller quirks an eyebrow.

No way she’ll give him the satisfaction of seeing how terrified she is to hear that Bellamy’s out in the woods on his own. And how furious it makes her. She’s really fucking pissed at him for being so stupid.

Turning heel, Clarke marches into Raven’s tent. “I need a radio.”

Raven sits, hunched, a pile of empty bullet casings glints under her shivering fingers. Without any acknowledgment, Raven unhooks the walkie hanging from her belt and thrusts it towards Clarke.

Sighing, Clarke takes it and says, “I’ll be back soon. Thank you for making these. We couldn’t do this without you.” As she turns to leave, she hears Raven stand up and walk forward a few steps.

“Wait! Clarke.” They both stand stock still. “Where are you going?”

“Bellamy is in the woods alone and I’m going to check on him.”

“Oh,” Raven murmurs. “Please be careful. I’ll see you when you two get back, okay?” Something between them loosens.’ Suddenly Clarke feels like she and Raven are going to be good someday. No time to think about that, though. Bellamy is being a dumbass.

Passing by the Dropship, Clarke swats aside the entrance tarp just long enough to call to a nearby kid. “Hey, Ruth! Please take those extra strips of fabric out to Miller and help him wrap his knuckles, okay? His hands are freezing.” Ruth nods and without further preamble, Clarke breaks into a sprint and ducks out the East Foxhole.

The moon is full, but the canopy is thick, and within moments Clarke abandons any hope of tracking Bellamy’s footsteps, though she’s pretty sure she knows which bunker Finn sent him to.

Not knowing who else might have a radio makes it tough to really tell him off _right now_ , but there’s always time when she finds him.

“Pssst, Bellamy”, she ventures out loud. Maybe he’s not that far away?

Silence.

A little louder, “Bellamy...”

 _This is stupid_ , she thinks. She feels stupid. And irrational. He’s probably fine.

Depressing the button on the walkie, Clarke clears her throat and musters that authoritative tone she keeps in her arsenal for moments like this.

“Bellamy, do you read me? Over.”

A scratchy click and, “Yeah. What’s wrong? Over.”

Careful to grumble before hitting the button, she responds, “Nothing’s wrong. I need to talk to you. What’s your location? Over.”

She hears static and dead air, like he’s already pushed the button but can’t work out what to say. He probably guesses she’s irritated that he took off without a word. To her, that is. Without a word to her.

“Um, I’m on my way to that bunker Finn calls the quote-unquote _Art Supply Store_. Over.” Oh, how much sarcasm he’s able to weave into one sentence. Unfortunately, it’s still kind of hot when he does that.

“Fine. I’ll meet you there. Over.”

“Roger that.”

At this point, Clarke could probably find her way there blindfolded. It’s not even a matter of repetition, but of all the emotional shit and sense-memory surrounding Finn’s- her- their- _that_ bunker. Of course, that means she has enough free mental capacity to ruminate, which she guesses is probably good since she’s still not sure what to say to Bellamy.

Since their day trip, Clarke has known that she trusts him, and of course he’s stupidly hot. Even with everything going on, it’s hard not to feel “personally victimized by how gorgeous he is”, as Monty drunkenly confided in her at the Unity Day party.

The hardest part for all of them is that things are just moving so damned fast down here. On the Ark, Clarke would never have believed Finn if he’d confessed his love after less than a week. But here? It’s not the same. She believes that Finn fell in love with her that quickly, and that she herself developed strong feelings for him, because the camp is a crucible. Everything extraneous evaporates and life has boiled down to the most fundamental things: Food. Shelter. Sex. And, more than that, emotional ties made under these circumstances are stronger and super-charged by teenage hormones. It’s basic psychology.

Of course, she’s a little annoyed at herself that the things which initially drew her to Finn were the very qualities she loved in her father, but she also realizes now that Finn is selfish in a way that her dad wasn’t. Still. She never wanted to be one of those people who ended up dating stand-ins for her parents.

When she gets there, Bellamy is standing next to the bunker entrance, waiting for her and looking for anyone hiding in the trees. “Nice of you to join me, Clarke.”

Without a word, she steps around him, yanks open the hatch, and descends down the ladder. Radio and jacket off, she deposits them on the couch and waits quietly for Bellamy to lock the door behind them. He climbs down in silence, then rests his gun next to the ladder.

Clarke rounds on him. “Why did you take off?”

Lines of tension strap the ends of his mouth. Hands on hips, he broadens his stance and raises up to his full height. “Why are you pissed at me? You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you, so I ran an errand. Miller knew where I was.”

From the corner of her eye, Clarke sees that Bellamy lit the candles spread throughout the room, must’ve done when he first got here. He couldn’t know that she’s the one who set them out during her night here with Finn. The blanket they’d had sex on lies folded on the bunk bed. She’s beginning to think that coming here was a bad idea.

“Bellamy, you just left! I’m in your bed and you not only ditch out, but you ditch out to run a last minute errand that you hadn’t mentioned, and you leave the camp without anyone to watch your back!” Everything feels like it’s bearing down on her, so she starts to pace.

“I have a gun and a radio, Clarke! I’m faster and quieter without anyone with me, so what the hell is the problem?”

In the course of pacing, she catches a glimpse of him every few moments, and it’s clear that he’s angry, but also a little worried. She knows she needs to calm down. She breathes deeply and stops, planting her feet firmly to remind herself to stand still.

“You just left me, Bellamy!” This place is too much. It’s as private as they’re going to get within walking distance, though.

Bellamy deflates and shuffles over to the couch, plopping down directly on the spot where Finn gave her (lackluster) head. “What do you want me to say, Clarke?”

Shyly, small, “I want you to say you’re with me.” She walks to the couch and joins him.

His eyes soften a bit. “I’m always with you. We’re a team.”

Clarke shakes her head, “No, I mean that you’re with me and I’m with you. That we’re each others’.” The candles’ flickering glow makes his features juke and shift. It’s hard to know what’s going through his head, but for the first time in a while her’s is starting to clear.

“Clarke, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“I’m a big boy. You don’t need to feel guilty for asking me to throw down. It wasn’t a hardship and my feelings aren’t hurt if you just want to move forward like normal.” The look on his face doesn’t really match this sentiment.

Twiddling her fingers, she averts her gaze. “I don’t want that. Is that what you want?”

He groans, strange and strangled, and his hand turns her face so that she’s looking at him. “Where is this coming from?” He strokes his thumb against the softness under her chin. “If it’s more sex you want, I’m not sure I can do that without getting more attached to you than you’d like.”

It’s like a punch in the chest-- one which forces a sharp, painful laugh out of her lungs. He thinks she just wants to use him. “Bellamy, I can see where I gave you the impression that I don’t want anything other than your body, but, honestly, I’ve thought a lot about it over the past couple days and I don’t see why we can’t try.”

Confused, “Try?”

“Yeah, like, to be together. As a couple.”

“Clarke,” he whispers, “we’re just now starting to get along. And if I had met you on the Ark, holy shit I would’ve wanted you-”

Not wanting to put him on the spot even more, Clarke cuts him off, “But you don’t want me. It’s okay. I understand.” She does. This isn’t going to get in the way of their goals on the Ground.

Suddenly, he turns, sinks to his knees on the chilled floor in front of her and takes her jaw between both hands. “No, Clarke. That’s not what I’m saying.” His torso is slotted between her legs and she inches closer. “I’m saying that starting a relationship now, of all times, would be risky. Like I said, you _just_ stopped hating me. And do we really even know how we feel about each other?”

Taking his hands in her own, Clarke weaves their fingers together to rest against her knees. Leaning in, she waits, switching her gaze between his eyes and lips. She can feel his shallow breaths whisking and spiraling in the corners of her mouth. He nods, almost imperceptibly.

She kisses him. Presses in and close with slow, thoughtful grazes: the corners of his mouth, the jut of his lower lip, the crests of his cupid’s bow, and when he whimpers she centers the kiss, deepening it and licks into him softly. Tastes him. There’s no rush or greed or desperation for something life-affirming; that’s what he needs to know. That this isn’t about anything other than him.

Something Clarke has always thought was that how much you lose yourself in a kiss reflects the potential of the relationship as a whole. Of course, this fantastical notion was borne of her sheltered upbringing on the Ark, and the nature of her parents’ chemistry and devotion. Because that’s what it was, and now that they’re both gone she’s forced to admit that her mom had acted stupidly, but not out of selfishness or malice.

At the time, she couldn't fully appreciate how her mom and dad looked at each other. How clearly they loved each other and that they could find solace together, even at the worst of times, when the air was thin, the food was scarce, or disease ran rampant-- keeping her mother in the med bay for days on end.

Quarters were close, even for the privileged, and she could hear them together on most nights. She was steady in the knowledge that, after twenty years of marriage, they could meet each other in the cold and dark and be happy and ecstatic; that they wanted each other in ways that she hoped someone would want her someday.

It was never foreign, and sex wasn’t a big deal, she knew. At least not in a way that made it taboo or unhealthy or inappropriate. And, having talked to Bellamy as they’ve traveled together, learning about his mother and family as she and he walked back from _their_ bunker-- the one that’s broken and worn down and leaking, but theirs-- she knows that the examples set by her parents, who loved each other deeply and whose love blossomed and flourished into her very existence, are what she sees through the prism of her own experience.

That’s not what Bellamy knows. And it occurs to her that it makes complete sense that her request last night would make him think that she isn’t interested in more than using his body. Because his body’s been used.

He told her what his mother had done to keep he and Octavia safe, but that he’d still felt used, even by the two women whom he loves more than anything in the universe. And despite that, that he’d have gladly stepped straight into that airlock to be jettisoned to death if it meant that Aurora and Octavia lived and were together as a family. And for the first time, it occurred to Clarke how much the Council and Charter had failed the Blakes. Aurora’s birth control implant had failed, which is rare and not her fault. 

He hadn’t said specifically, and she hadn’t asked, but Clarke is pretty sure that he appealed to be floated in Aurora's place, citing that he’d transitioned into the Guard and ignored mandated reporting of crimes. And Clarke guessed, with a fair degree of certainty, that Shumway played a significant role in making sure that Bellamy lived, to be used again when the time came.

Finally, during their trip, she distinctly remembers diverting to the left of an unseasonably thriving bougainvillea as he split off to the right. At the furthest point away from her, Bellamy offhandedly mentioned distracting guards who weren’t interested in his mother. When he met her on the other side, his cheeks were red, his voice was muddy and brackish.

So here she is, giving everything she has to Bellamy, embracing the silence that bursts and rushes to swell around them-- all the things which make up their combined singularity. Each constrained inhale, every hum, sigh, and touch, pulls in the light, sound, and every twitching atom around them. He’s kinetic. She’s potential. They’ve been building and now they’re imminent and unstoppable. It’s what her parents were. She knows how they felt and it’s overwhelming.

Tears brim and shed over her eyes’ waterlines, running down to mix with the kiss, solute and suspending between she and him. He ate blueberries at some point today and the aftertaste sharpens from the salt.

He leans back on his heels to check on her. “Clarke, I’m sorry. Honestly, we don’t have to do this.”

Maybe it’s stress and inappropriate affect, maybe it’s just that he’s adorable and ridiculous in the most endearing ways, but Clarke laughs. Scooting forward until she’s nearly off the couch’s edge, she grins and tugs the lapels of his jacket. He hates this jacket, so she hates it too, but if there’s a way to infuse it with her affection and devotion, she’ll find it. He doesn’t resist. She rests her forehead on his.

“Bellamy, you’re an idiot if you think that we haven’t been already.”

It’s like he can’t decide where to touch her first. Analysis paralysis, her mom called it. Too many options. His fingers brush her waist, wrists, outer thighs. They slip behind her neck and toy with the errant bits of hair sleep-loose from her braid.

But even now, he looks confused and scared. He’s a foster of learned helplessness; secret-keeper. Atlas. Fowler for his family’s Albatross.

That version of him from a couple weeks ago? That’s not him. She knows. Just took some time to figure out that the only things he’s wanted for himself in a very long time were to protect his sister, feel in control of anything at all, and not to die because of the impossible choices he’s had to make.

Clarke massages the back of his neck. Bellamy rocks forward like he’s going to kiss her again, but then he pauses. What she said must have finally sunken in.

“What do you mean?” He watches her skeptically, still playing with her braid.

“Bellamy!” Clarke says, chidingly. “Be honest with yourself. We’ve already been doing this in the abstract, way less-satisfying way since our trip to get supplies.” He chews his lower lip and she really, really wants to kiss him again.

“Okay, I’m gonna need some help tracking your logic.”

“Well, at least for my part, I already care about you more than anyone else on the Ground.” He looks surprised but, honestly, she is too. She’s kind of winging this talk, hasn’t really thought out what to say, and hadn’t expected that much of a truth-bomb to drop so soon. Even so, she continues, “I mean, yeah, I worry about the others, and it’s pretty recent that that’s the case, but it’s true. I care about you. Trust you implicitly. I can be myself and I think about you all the time.” She chuckles, “God knows I’m attracted to you.”

Bellamy’s head cocks to the side and he asks, without any inflection, “What about Spacewalker?”

That question was coming, obviously. Bellamy isn’t naive and he knows that she and Finn had sex. Most likely figured out that it was here, not that it was on this couch, but at least the general location. Sense memory sucks. It’s not so bad with Bellamy here, touching her, and how easy it is to remember what he felt like last night. Still.

And now she knows it’s important to explain before they're intimate again, because she refuses to keep distracting herself with sex, or to make him feel like she’s using him as a replacement.

If she stands and walks away, he’ll think that she’s deflecting or pissed, so Clarke opts to sit back and pat the couch next to her. He stands, rubs at his knees (which must be sore from the concrete floor), and perches next to her.

Self-consciously, she smooths her shirt. “What about him?”

Shrugging, “I thought that you had feelings for him.”

“I did, but he broke my heart.”

“He loves you.”

“So he says.”

“Do you love him?”

It’s involuntary, but Clarke shudders at the thought. Any chance of that exploded on impact when Raven landed. Ultimately, it’s hard not to feel like both she and Raven have dodged a bullet, though.

“No, Bellamy. But you should know that things are never that black and white. It’s possible to have strong feelings for more than one person.”

Grudgingly, he nods. “I don’t want to be a rebound.”

“That’s not what this is,” Clarke whispers. Actually, that’s something she thought about a lot over the past few days. She just wasn’t sure how he felt.

“What is it, then?” Slowly, he reaches over and hooks his pinkie onto her index finger, tugging experimentally like a child would.

“I told you.” She turns her hand in his and playfully spiders her fingers over his fingertips. “Don’t you feel like we’re already in a relationship?” He captures her hand to press his palm against hers, surveying how the tips of her fingers barely reach the bottoms of his.

“In a way, I guess. I just-” Turning her hand, he strokes his fingers along the delicate tendons and veins on the underside of her wrist, awestruck and cautiously optimistic. Watching him look at her that way twists her heart. “I’m not as young as the rest of you and with the way I was raised, I just tend to take things more slowly. And I’m worried about what will happen if things don’t work out.”

A deep breath and, “Bellamy, I’m a realist.” He nods again, absently, still exploring her hand and wrist. “I know that I care strongly for you, but love? I don’t know. I’m not sure that either of us is there yet.” Finally, he looks up, but twines their fingers together, nods once more and swallows. “And that’s a good thing,” Clarke continues, “because this is how real relationships begin. Yeah, of course things are heightened and accelerated and we’re all terrified. It’s easy to reach into the unknown and cling to the first thing that makes us feel even a little safer. But, I don’t want or need a fantasy. I want a partner. We’re trying to survive, hoping to build a home, and I can’t survive without you, and definitely don’t want to build a home with anyone else. I’ve thought this through. Not having a romantic relationship with you isn’t going to make me care for you any less, it just means that I don’t get to fall asleep in your arms. No matter what, if I lose you it’ll be agony, but worse for the knowledge that we were cowards.”

A moment passes, then another. Clarke begins to worry that she’d misread things. That maybe he was trying to let her down gently. It’s a relief when he places the hand he’s holding over his heart.

“Okay. Let’s give it a whirl.”

Clarke beams and springs forward to hug him. She nuzzles her face against his neck. It takes him a second to react, but when he does his arms close around her tightly while he pecks sweet kisses on her shoulder.

Something occurs to her. “Hey, what did you come to this bunker for?”

When he pulls back to look her in the eye, he’s actually smirking. “I needed paper.”

Clarke blushes furiously. “The map.”

“The map.”

“I’m sorry I ruined it.” She really does feel bad. It’s an important asset that he worked hard to make.

He smiles and runs a thumb along her bottom lip. “I’m not.”

They should probably get back. That would be the responsible thing to do. That’s their thing: responsibility.

In spite of that, Clarke finds herself turning, pushing firmly at Bellamy’s chest so there’s room to swing her leg over and straddle his thighs. He accommodates by sliding back and gripping her hips.

Plaintively, “Come here, Clarke. Please.” The obtuse angle of the seat forces him to lie back pretty far. Strong hands palm her ass greedily and when he ruts his hips against her, he groans in frustration because her mouth is out of reach.

It’s tempting to tease him, but again, time is a consideration, and she wants him. Between them, they both see that the crotch of her jeans is soaking wet. Eyes hooded, he begs, “Please, babe. Please. Let me kiss you.”

She grinds down against him, whines at how hard he is and the friction of her jean’s inseam brushing her clitoris.

Bellamy’s head falls back against the couch. Voice deep and throttled, “Fuck. Seriously, please. Babe, please.” Trembles roll through him and into her legs where they touch.

Clarke bends forward, rakes her nails up the back of his neck and into his hair, holds him where she wants him. The moan this elicits from him wracks through her, rumbles along her spine and makes her arch up before lowering her mouth to his.

The kiss is exploratory at first, testing the angle. He lets her chart him out, mark him as her own while he kneads her ass helplessly in time with each increasingly debilitating stroke of her tongue.

He breaks when she whimpers against him. Taking her by the waist, he flips them both so that she’s lying on her back as he looms, hungrily taking in her expression, which she knows must be completely desperate.

“I need to feel you, babe. Do you want that? Do you want me to fuck you?”

Clarke grins, “Yeah. I want that.” A pause. “Not here on the couch or on the floor, though.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls. It takes her by surprise, but Bellamy has her belt and jeans open within seconds. With a single, sweeping motion he removes her pants and underwear. They’re tossed to the side even faster. He cups her mons then drags his middle finger along her slit and up to his mouth to suck it clean. “Damnit, you taste better than anything.” Standing back, he begins to undress. Clarke likes the way he’s looking at her while he strips. She spreads her thighs wider and reaches down to touch herself. “You’re killing me, Clarke.” He sways slightly as he steps out of his pants. “See what you do to me? I'm dizzy from wanting you.”

She laughs and sits up, pulls her shirt off and removes her bra. Stepping forward, Clarke hooks her fingers over the edge of his boxer briefs and pulls them carefully over his hardened cock and down his thighs. He kicks them aside before stepping closer to her and running his hands up her sides and stroking her breasts. Rough thumbs roll her nipples. It feels amazing.

“Babe, you’re so beautiful.”

Tip-toeing forward, she clasps onto his biceps and nips at his chin. “You’re awfully chatty, Blake. When you gonna fuck me?”

“Someone’s impatient,” he chuckles. Bending, he lightly slaps the backs of her thighs. “Here, jump up.”

She considers him for a moment. “What if I’m too heavy?”

Scandalized, he takes his familiar stance: hands on hips, arms akimbo. She’ll never be able to see him stand like that again without remembering what it’s like when he’s naked with his dick jutting rock hard between them.

“You weigh, like, an ounce. Are you trying to insult me?”

Clarke giggles, enjoying riling him up a bit. “I don’t know. You look strong, but that doesn’t always mean-” She squeals as he rushes forward, scoops her up effortlessly with her thighs on either side of his waist and, without missing a beat, lowers her onto the head of his cock. Reflexively, Clarke wraps her legs around his hips and clings to his shoulders. “Holy shit,” she breathes.

He looks incredibly arrogant right now, but she figures he’s earned it. They’re still a moment while he gives her a chance to adjust, and when he’s all the way in Clarke’s head swims at how good it feels.

Assuming that he’s going to carry her over to screw her against the wall, it’s a shock when Bellamy stays right in the middle of the room. “Ready?” He’s smirking.

“Yeah.”

Apparently her knowledge of sex isn’t nearly as extensive as she previously thought, because she didn’t even know that people fuck with one of them just holding the other up without any additional support. It’s always been obvious that he’s strong, but this was... much. At least she thinks that’s the word. It’s hard to think.

Faster and faster, he manually strokes her along the length of his dick, gaining momentum each time. The throaty sounds she makes each time he fucks her down onto him almost embarrass her, but his eyes, pupils blown, and the way he praises her, tells her she’s wonderful and perfect and sexy and how hard he’s going to come because of how she drives him crazy, those elements all combine to make her feel like the most cherished creature in existence.

When her orgasm hits, a scream tears its way from her throat and she quakes so much that her arms lose their grip. Bellamy catches her, plants his feet wide and gathers her against his chest. He kisses her while standing still. Involuntarily, her hips continue to buck against him and her vaginal muscles clench rhythmically around him. Soon, his breathing catches and he squeezes her tighter, digging his fingers between her ribs until he comes, deep and violently enough that he drops to his knees while they both ride out their respective climaxes.

He softens inside her, but waits to set her down until her body stops shaking. They both kneel limply, letting their bones prop them up. Clarke tips forward and supports herself on her hands, gasping for hair. His cum begins to run down her thighs and drip onto the floor. She genuinely loves how it feels.

“Fucking hell, babe,” he mumbles, “Hopefully we stay together until we die, because I’m pretty sure you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

“Good,” she says matter-of-factly. They both break into hearty laughter.

A muffled voice calls out through both of their radios, creating an eerie echo. “Bellamy, do you read me? Over.” It’s Murphy.

Ungracefully, Bellamy scrambles on all fours over to his clothes, digging around until he finds his walkie. “Yeah, Murphy. What do you want? Over” He’s putting in a noble effort not to sound annoyed. He’s still furious with Murphy.

“I found something about half a mile into the West woods. I’ve got a couple other kids with me and we think you should see this. Bring Clarke. One of the kids is injured. Over.”

Bellamy grumbles and stands, careful of his aching knees and thighs. “Okay, we’ll be there in a bit. Sit tight. Over.”

There’s a stack of clean towels near the sink. They’re dusty, but that’s not really a big deal considering that the two of them are both practically covered in ejaculate. He shakes a towel out and tosses it to Clarke, then does the same for a second.

As quickly as possible, they’re clean and heading to Murphy. After exiting the bunker, Bellamy radios him to get a more precise location.

When Murphy he comes into view, Clarke notices that he’s alone. She extends an arm to stop Bellamy. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

Bellamy calls, “Murphy, where are the others?”

A creeping feeling climbs Clarke’s neck just as the blunt end of a spear swings at an angle into the back of Bellamy’s head. He crumples to the ground, unconscious. Before she can react, something hits her too. As her vision clouds and narrows black, she locks her gaze on Bellamy. If this is it, she wants him to be the last thing she sees.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be happy times ahead. I promise.
> 
> Also, this story may have become a drive-by dissertation on sexual positions I find interesting.
> 
> Weird? Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think in the comments!


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